


Those Pages

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:25:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, a homeless ex-serviceman, loves warming up at the nearest library when it's especially cold outside. Sherlock Holmes, newly hired librarian, is not amused by grubby homeless men invading his realm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Pages

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta [kholly](kholly.livejournal.com). :)

Books had always been something absolutely fundamental to John Watson.

It had started when he had been a child, hardly old enough to hold up the handful of picture books his parents had bought him for his birthday. He hadn't been able to read the short written sentences on the pages, but he hadn't really needed to. John had simply made up his own stories to match the pictures or asked his parents to read the books out loud.

Later, when he had been able to make sense of the letters all by himself, John had read one book after another. He had never been a particularly picky reader – John would greedily devour anything printed and pressed in between two more-or-less sturdy pieces of cardboard.

All that mattered was that the book would take him somewhere else.

 _Somewhere else_ could be anywhere, really. A far away country or an imagined kingdom was just as interesting to John as a journey into the human body or into the past or future. John loved the feeling of disappearing into the world of written words, of experiencing new, exciting things through his books.

His passion for reading never truly left him later in his life. True, there had been a few years in his early adolescence, when peers and parties had been more interesting than prose and poetry, but ultimately, John Watson had never once ceased to love reading.

And books were patient companions. They didn't go anywhere, would calmly wait for years, decades, centuries even to be read and loved. The story, after all, would never truly leave the paper, even if the ink faded over time.

Maybe it was because of this life-long passion for anything written that on days like this, when the cold of London's winter was too unbearable even for tough men like him, John liked to flee into the library close to his usual sleeping spots.

It was a rather big but cosy one, the kind that smelled of old paper and years worth of dust. Usually, the rows of wooden tables were filled with students doing research for their endless assignments and papers, and older ladies and gentlemen looking for a good read. Children were a rather seldom sight – understandable, as they preferred the colourful libraries filled with dozens of shelves worth of age-based literature.

Sighing comfortably as warmth met his frozen skin, John entered the anteroom of the library and let the heavy door fall shut behind him. He spared a glance at the desk, preparing to nod at the sweet old librarian that by now was used to seeing John in her realm and knew that he meant no harm for her books - only to be confronted with a new face.

The stranger behind the counter, a middle-aged man, was tall and slender, or at least John thought so. He couldn't quite tell, as the man was sitting next to the computer used for cataloguing all the books in the building and was slumping a bit as he was staring at the monitor in apparent interest.

As the door closed behind John with a discrete thud, the new librarian looked up. Pale eyes narrowed as he took in John's appearance from head to toe. John swallowed but didn't avert his gaze. He knew what people thought when they got a first good look at him, of course, and was used to meeting pitiful or disgusted expressions with indifference.

The homeless were hardly welcome anywhere, not even the clean and more or less well-groomed ones like John. He was always careful to have his beard trimmed and hair and fingers washed, but of course it was still incredibly easy to tell just _what_ he was. If the haggard features of his face and his frost-bitten fingers weren't a big giveaway already, the large backpack over his good shoulder definitely had to be.

People with a steady home didn't need to carry around rolled-up blankets after all.

John was unsure what to do. The lady librarian had always been quite friendly to him, had even let him read in peace once she had understood that John was not here to steal any of the books. But now, with the new man behind the desk, John didn't know what to do or expect.

For a few seconds, John and the new librarian simply looked at each other in silence. Then, the other man's eyes returned to the screen as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Sighing silently in relief, John tightened his grip around his cane and limped, as quietly as it was possible, into the far back of the library.

John had something like a regular table. It was a bit lopsided and most people avoided it, which suited John just fine. Seeing that his table was once more unoccupied, John smiled to himself and put down his backpack onto the smooth surface. Thoroughly enjoying the warmth of the building, John peeled off his fading leather jacket and draped it over the back of the chair by the table.

Rubbing his hands in glee as much as in a motion to warm them a bit further, John turned to the right and disappeared into the maze of shelves. He knew _exactly_ what he was looking for – a collection of war-related poems that had caught his interest a few days ago when he had last visited the library.

John didn't come here every day. He could, probably, but he knew that that would push his luck a fair bit. He was grateful that he hadn't once been told to leave the library building as it had happened in nearly all of the other harbours he usually retreated to on the colder days.

Letting the fingers of his free hand brush over the backs of several books, John finally caught sight of the volume he was looking for. As he stretched his hand, ready to draw the book from the shelf, long fingers wrapped swiftly around his wrist.

Looking up, John once more met the cool eyes of the new librarian. He was indeed quite tall and dressed in an immaculate suit that made him look like a gentleman rather than an employee.

"May I ask what you are intending to do with this?"

His voice was sharp in spite of the hushed tone he had chosen as if not to disturb the other library visitors and John immediately felt defensive.

"What people usually do with books – read it," he hissed, pulling back his hand until the other man let go of his arm.

The librarian's eyebrows arched upwards.

"Really?" he drawled, obviously not convinced. "And you're quite sure you don't mean to steal it?"

Feeling far more offended than he probably should, John glared up at the other man.

Just because he was a homeless man that didn't mean he was a criminal. John had not once in his life stolen anything. All he owned, used and ate was either picked up from the streets or earned with small favours and errands. John Watson didn't need charity and above all, John Watson wasn't a _thief_.

"Very sure, yes," he snapped, careful to keep his voice low. "I am here to enjoy a good book, just like anybody else."

The man eyed him carefully for a few moments before taking a step backwards. As he was no longer being loomed over, John relaxed a bit and took a calming breath.

"In that case, _sir_ – may I see your library card?"

John nearly laughed at that. Of course, he didn't own a library card. After all, a membership meant naming an address and John couldn't provide a permanent residence to qualify for one.

"I don't have a card," John admitted through clenched teeth.

The man smirked in triumph.

"Well, then, I must ask you to leave at once."

The expression on his face was so unbearably smug that for a second, John was actually tempted to punch him. And not only that – John felt the sudden urge to shout at him, to tell him that he was Dr John Watson, former army doctor, who had given his health and sanity for this country, for the likes of this man, and that all he wanted, all he demanded in return, were a few hours of warmth and poetry in this library and was that really too much to ask?

The librarian seemed to have caught at least some of those thoughts from John's expression as he took another, rather wary step backwards.

"I am not taking out the book," John said, trying to control his emotions and leaning heavily on his cane. "I only intend to read for a bit and then, I'll leave."

Maybe he could convince the smug bastard to leave him alone, at least for an hour, until he had warmed up and done at least a bit of reading. He would show the new librarian that he was careful with the books and then, the man might learn to accept John's presence like the former librarian had.

John's words seemed to have some kind of impact, at least. Instead of looking smug or ready to throw John out, his face had gone contemplative, as if he was thinking the whole thing over. Feeling a bit more hopeful, John decided to push a bit further.

"I've come here for one and a half years and nobody has ever said anything. I promise I'll be careful with the books. Look, my hands are clean – I won't damage anything, I swear."

The librarian gave him a last, calculating look. Then, to John's utter surprise, he smiled at him. It wasn't entirely friendly, but not the infuriating smirk he had sported earlier, so definitely an improvement.

"All right. How about this – I'll let you come and read without a card, given that you are indeed careful with the books. _But_ , in return, you will need to do me a special favour as well."  
   
John stared up at the man, unsure what to make of the sudden and odd proposal. A deal? What kind of service could John offer in return? Obviously, the librarian had caught on to the fact that John was living on the streets, so – oh. _Oh._

"I'm _not_ a prostitute," John spat, eyes narrowing in disgust. "I won't spread my legs for you in exchange for some kind of reading privilege."

John had only been propositioned like that twice since living on the streets, given his age and appearance, but he knew that there were more than enough people out there who were all too happy with a quick, cheap and meaningless shag.

The other man, however, screwed up his face in obvious distaste.

"That's disgusting and I'll be thankful if you never even mention anything of the sort again. Otherwise, I might have to call off the deal and kick you out after all. No, I was thinking about something else entirely: my books for your life story."

Surprised by this turn of events, John simply gaped at the man for a long moment. His _life story_? Why would the man want to know _that_ in exchange for his favour? Feeling curious and also a bit bad for making wrong and hasty assumptions, John tried to be a bit more forthcoming.

"My life story? Why would you be interested in that?"

The man smiled again. Apparently, he hadn't been all that offended by John's accusation after all.

"I collect them. Mostly, people don't have to say much to me. You can tell what they've been through simply by looking at them. Their behaviour, their manner of speaking – they read like open books to me. But a homeless man, this clean and organised, with a fondness for literature? I must admit I am quite intrigued." He shifted, offering his hand for a shake. "One hour, one night a week, and I am allowed to ask you anything I'd like. In return, you can come here whenever you want to to warm up and read. Deal?"

John surprised himself by not even hesitating and firmly clasping the librarian's hand in agreement.

"Deal," he replied and even tried returning the smile.

After all, what did he have to lose?

True to his word, the librarian – who introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes – did not stop John from reading and staying in the library anymore. Instead, he merely asked John to come in on Friday night shortly before the library would close for their first session of - whatever it was.

John still didn't really understand why somebody would be interested in his life story. As far as he had been able to tell, Holmes hadn't seemed like a hobby journalist or author. So why he'd be interested in the lives of random strangers was truly beyond John.

When Friday night came, John decided that he'd simply go along with it and appeared in front of the librarians' desk, promptly at 8 o'clock. He watched Holmes lock the door after shooing a bunch of rather insistent students away and settled down behind the counter when the man asked him to.

He put down his backpack, sat, let out a little sigh when the pressure on his leg was relieved and let his cane lean against the counter.

"I brought you something to eat," Holmes told him and pointed at a plastic bag resting on a hidden shelf underneath the desk.

John looked up at him, surprised.

"Really?" he enquired, stunned by Holmes' thoughtfulness.

"Sure. You look like you could need the calories. Feel free to eat as much as you like. You can keep the rest of it, too, it'll get thrown away otherwise."

Feeling that this wasn't so much charity but strategy – a hungry man wasn't a good story-teller – John shrugged and eagerly unwrapped a ham-and-egg sandwich. Closing his eyes in pleasure, John simply tucked in and enjoyed the taste of fresh white bread for a few, lazy minutes.

"So, John," Holmes eventually spoke up. He had sat down on a chair opposite of him, arms crossed loosely before his chest, long legs stretched in front of him. "Start whenever you feel ready."

John took his time with chewing and swallowing before giving his reply.

"What do you want to hear?" he asked, taking in Holmes' relaxed posture and interested face.

"Everything. Start with your childhood, primary school – anything, really. I'll ask if I want to hear about something specific."

And so, John started talking. His earliest childhood memories, family holidays and arguments with Harry – whatever came up in his mind, John told to a more or less complete stranger. And Holmes listened. He listened, asked the occasional question and never once stopped smiling his small, interested smile.

When the first hour was over, John still wasn't any wiser as to why the librarian wanted to hear about John's life. But then, John didn't really care all that much. His arrangement with Holmes apparently meant free food, a warm place to rest and surprisingly agreeable company.

By the third Friday, Holmes had become Sherlock and sandwiches had changed into shared boxes of Chinese takeaway.

John hadn't realised he had missed this until Sherlock provided it once more – company, someone to talk to, somebody to confide in. Over the short span of three weeks, Sherlock Holmes had become the closest thing to a friend John possessed since being shot and discharged from the army.

And he liked it, craved the attention and the interest Sherlock offered so freely.

"Medicine seemed the way to go," John told him on the fourth Friday in between two spring rolls. "So, I became a doctor."

Sherlock's face lit up. By now, John was beginning to understand that Sherlock didn't really have a reason for wanting to know about people. There was just something about getting to know somebody that apparently provided the librarian with endless entertainment.

"A doctor? Really? I was a hundred percent sure that you used to be in the military."

By now, John also wasn't surprised by Sherlock's stunningly accurate guesses and deductions anymore. The man was extremely smart and observing and had asked more than one scarily precise question in the past month. Collecting life stories probably gave you a lot of insight into people's minds.

"Oh, I was," John admitted and made a show of staring at the remaining spring rolls. "I decided to join the army, later."

"A homeless army doctor!" Sherlock called out and John cringed at the overly excited tone of Sherlock's voice as he labelled John. "That _is_ rather intriguing. Do continue, please."

And for some reason John couldn't really fathom, he did. He told Sherlock everything: his naïve reasons for joining the Forces, his thoughts on the day of his first deployment, his traumatic experiences in Afghanistan.

And through each and every Friday night, Sherlock simply sat, asked and listened.

He listened when John told him about crying himself to sleep at night, told him about friends and comrades bleeding to death under his hands, told him about being shot and sent back to London.

It was a nice feeling – being heard, being listened to. John learned to enjoy the honestly interested expression on Sherlock's face, got used to having someone who _understood_.

"They offered me a tiny, impersonal room and an army pension for injured ex-servicemen. And I stayed there at first, you know, for two months actually. But I – I couldn't live like that."

Three months into their acquaintance, John had finally come to the point where he'd tell Sherlock about how he had ended up homeless.

By now, the two men were so comfortable with each other that they were sitting side by side rather than across from each other. Sherlock's legs were stretched out right next to John's bad one and the librarian's arm was resting carelessly over the back of John's chair.

"You were going crazy, is that it?" Sherlock asked.

As always, he sounded interested but not judging. It was something John had come to appreciate a great deal as well.

"Yeah," he admitted and closed his eyes briefly as he thought back. "There was nothing to do but breathe and remember. Who'd want to give me a job? My leg, my shoulder, the ever-returning nightmares – if at all, it would have been a pity employment. And I don't need charity."

"You needed a challenge," Sherlock said, suddenly sitting up and turning in the chair to face John.

His expression was brighter, more excited than ever before. Clearly, this was what he had been waiting for and John had the feeling that the man understood _exactly_ what had gone through John's head the day he left the terribly bland and suffocating room behind.

And why wouldn't he? By now, Sherlock Holmes knew John's entire life story, every silly school boy crush and every embarrassing anecdote. Of course, he'd figure it out.

"Life wasn't interesting anymore," the librarian continued and John only looked at him, waiting for Sherlock to connect the clues. "So you gave yourself a challenge – survive on the streets without help or charity. It isn't quite the same as fearing for your life each and every night, but close enough. You needed the possibility that one day, you might be stabbed in your sleep or freeze to death."

Hearing it from another person's mouth, it sounded absolutely insane. But just as always, Sherlock didn't seem the least bit put-off. Instead, he sounded excited, interested, _fascinated_.

John nodded slowly.

"Pretty much, yes," he agreed and shifted on his chair, carefully drawing his bad leg in. "It's not quite the same, but at least some of the boredom is gone. Sometimes, I'll patch up some of the others on the streets and they'll give me food or clothes in return. And on occasions, I like to go to the library and read. I still like reading, you know. I never stopped, not even in Afghanistan."

Sherlock nodded. He was grinning widely by now, staring at John as if he were an apparition. Feeling a tad uncomfortable, John cleared his throat and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"That's it, pretty much," he said. "That was my life. My entire life up until now, really."

And suddenly, John felt a pang of regret. Because didn't this mean that it was over? No more Friday night meetings, no more sharing food and stories in the gloomy light of the library. John had gotten used to this, to looking forward to their talks every single week.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said and John gave him a weak smile.

"I guess I'll be on my way, then," he murmured, reaching for his cane.

But just like on the very first day they met, Sherlock's hand shot out and curled around his wrist. The grin on the man's face had faded and made space for a look of calculation.

"Where will you go?" he asked calmly.

"Don't know," John said, shrugging. "The park, maybe. Or down to the river with some of the others."

For a moment, Sherlock only looked at him, eyes so intense that it sent goose bumps down John's arms. For some reason, his heart started beating faster, thudding loudly in John's chest.

"You could come to my flat," Sherlock eventually said.

John blinked, unsure if he had heard right.

"What? Why?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Why not?" he retorted.

John didn't know what to say to that and before he could come up with some kind of excuse, the hand that was still wrapped around his wrist let go and moved upwards until it was cupping John's left cheek.

John knew that he hadn't shaved in weeks, that his beard had to be scratchy and uncomfortable against Sherlock's hand, but the librarian didn't seem to mind.

"Stay with me tonight, yes?" he whispered, leaning forward until his nose was dangerously close to John's. "It's warm. You could sleep in a proper bed."

John suddenly couldn't look away, as if those pale eyes had caught him, wouldn't let him go.

"A proper bed?" he repeated, almost breathless.

" _My_ bed," Sherlock clarified and brought their mouths together.

Sherlock's lips were soft and surprisingly warm against John's and for some reason, he couldn't find it in him to reject the other man. Instead, he returned the kiss, carefully at first, then more passionately.

He wondered why Sherlock would feel attracted to _him_ , why Sherlock would kiss a homeless ex-servicemen with a scratchy beard, greying hair, fading trousers and a bad leg.

In the end, though, it simply felt too good. John hadn't been this close to another person since before Afghanistan and he was only human. His arms came up almost involuntarily, carefully embracing Sherlock, pulling him closer and he hardly cared that this was an awkward position, kissing over the armrests of both of their chairs.

Naturally, John followed Sherlock home. How could he not?

In the bedroom, Sherlock was surprisingly tender and thoughtful. He knew exactly where to touch John, where to kiss him and John briefly wondered if he hadn't told Sherlock a bit too much about past relationships. But then, long and clever fingers wrapped around John's erection and all conscious thought vanished from John's mind.

It was the most intense sexual encounter John had ever experienced in his life. He couldn't quite pinpoint the reasons for why his body reacted the way it did, why it excited him so much to brush his palms over Sherlock's back, why long, slim and slick fingers felt absolutely magnificent when they slipped between John's buttocks.

When he woke in the morning it was to the sight of a sleeping Sherlock Holmes, dark curls a sticky mess over his forehead. The bed smelled of sex and Sherlock and the bedroom floor was covered in books and papers, some of which had rested on the bed the night before.

 _Very fitting for a librarian,_ John thought, slightly amused.

Careful, so as not to wake the man, John slipped from the bed and limped through the flat without his cane until he found the bathroom.

He took a shower, the first proper one in forever because homeless centres didn't count, and eventually came to stand in front of the sink, hands curled around the porcelain. He stared at his reflection in the mirror above and was shocked at how skinny, tired and worn-out he appeared to be.

John hadn't really looked at himself in a mirror in over a year.

 _Why would he be attracted to me?_ he wondered, touching the prominent bags under his eyes. _Why would he care for a shabby, broken man like me?_

"You're interesting."

John jumped and turned. There, in the doorway to the bathroom, Sherlock was standing, wearing only a pair of dark pyjama bottoms and a small but honest smile.

John stared at him, started at the perfect shape of his lips, his slim chest, the dark hair around his navel.

"You're interesting and fascinating, like someone from a book, like a fictional character. You're interesting and I love it," Sherlock continued and moved, crossed the distance between them until he came to stand right next to John.

"I'm a homeless ex-army doctor who very badly needs to shave," John murmured and Sherlock chuckled.

Long arms wrapped around John's torso as Sherlock leaned closer, rubbing his slightly stubbly cheek over John's full-grown beard.

"I like your beard. I'll like you without it, too, if you decide to shave. I like _you_ , John."

Their gazes met in the mirror.

"Stay," Sherlock whispered.

John averted his eyes.

"I can't," he murmured and carefully shifted until he could free himself from Sherlock's arms.

"Why not?"

"I'm not – I will be bored and frustrated again, Sherlock. I can't settle down, I can't be domestic. You know my life story. You know I am not the type to settle down with. Not one to grow old with."

Sherlock looked at him – not judging; only interested, just as always.

"You won't even give it a try?" he enquired.

John didn't have an answer to that.

Sherlock didn't stop him when he limped into the bedroom, collected his clothes, his backpack, his cane. He merely watched, not saying a word until John was standing by the door, fully dressed and ready to leave.

"You know where to find me," Sherlock said in place of a good-bye.

John left without speaking up.

He didn't return to the library the next day, nor the day after that. He didn't allow himself to even walk past the building. He stayed away from that part of the city entirely, told himself that he didn't need to, now that summer was fast approaching and the temperatures were far more bearable than before.

He forbid himself to think about Sherlock, distracted himself with getting to know more people from the streets, patching up their black eyes and scratches when it was necessary. It worked, but only during the day.

At night, he'd dream of pale eyes and knowing smiles, of long talks and Sherlock's low voice asking just the right questions.

John lasted exactly two months. On the first day of the third, John found himself standing in front of the library, panting and with cramps in his bad leg. He must have run the last metres without even realising it.

Staring at the familiar door, John knew that he couldn't deny himself any longer. He needed Sherlock. Needed their talks, their shared meals, _everything_.

The desk was abandoned when he entered and for a moment, John feared that Sherlock had quit, maybe even moved, moved _on_.

He limped into the maze of shelves, turning his head left and right, looking for the familiar sight of dark hair and long legs. All he could see, though, were books and more books.

Until an elegant hand curled around John's wrist.

"May I see your library card, sir?" a familiar voice rumbled into his right ear.

John simply let himself lean into the warmth of Sherlock's chest with a sigh of utter relief.

"I don't have one," he murmured and Sherlock chuckled, wrapping his arms around John, pulling his back close to his own chest, embracing John tightly.

"Oh, don't worry about that. I am sure I can think of a few _favours_ on your part in compensation for my discretion."

John only laughed, turned and buried his face into Sherlock's chest. It felt good, being held like this. He had missed this, being close to another human, sharing little jokes and secrets. Had missed _Sherlock_.

"I'm glad you've come back," Sherlock finally murmured, brushing a hand through John's hair.

"Me too," John replied, voice muffled by Sherlock's shirt.

 _It will take time,_ John thought, breathing in Sherlock's scent. _Getting used to living a proper little life again._

"See it as a new chapter in the book of your life," Sherlock advised, knowing exactly what to say to put John at ease.

"Yes," he replied. He liked that thought. "I will."


End file.
